The F*$@king Fours

So remember my frabjous day last week when Primo slept 12 hours and was the paragon of perfection? Well, I feel it is my responsibility to dissuade you from the notion that the winning streak continued. In fact, that day was just a single, solitary moment of light to keep me warm during what is sure to be a bitter cold winter of the soul as Primo works his way through his current behavioral shit-storm.

Look, I don’t enjoy talking trash about my kids, but at this point I consider it to be a valuable therapeutic exercise that will, perhaps, prevent me from thrashing the little sucker. Because my son is in the fucking fours.

I think it was the midwife at my OB practice who first introduced me to that term, when I went to see her for my six week post-partum visit after having Seconda. We were talking about how Primo was dealing with the new baby and she told us about this equilibrium/ disequilibrium thing, which more or less boils down to this: On even years, kids are awful monsters. Or something like that. Who the hell remembers exactly? I had just had a baby for Crissakes. But I clearly recall her bracing me for trouble, because, as my children are two years apart, they are always hitting the even years at the same time.

So, what I’ve got on my hands is a case of the Terrible Twos and the Fucking Fours. Don’t you wish you were me?

Now that I’ve been through both, I can tell you with assurance that the Fucking Fours are significantly worse than the Terrible Twos/ Those two extra years give kids considerable more strength, stamina and wiles. By four, most children have a nuanced understanding of their parents tragic flaws and how best to exploit them.

So what exactly is my four year-old doing that has driven me to sitting here today, eating immoderate amounts of milk chocolate with whole hazelnuts and smearing his name on the world wide web? Put it to you this way. You know those mean drunks, who get a few too many beers in them and start picking fights? And you know, it doesn’t matter what you do or say, they’ll find something to brawl over? That is my son. The only hope I have of avoiding a scene is to try and stay clear of him.

This morning, instantly upon waking, he announces that we need to perform the play of “There was an Old Woman who Swallowed Count Dracula.”

“Why don’t you make the costumes and plan the play while Mommy makes coffee?” I suggest.

Please be advised this is 6:15 am.

By 6:20 am he has finished what I was hoping would take at least 30 minutes. The kid works fast. He has drawn all of our costume pieces on construction paper and sets about taping these works of art onto everyone’s body. Vampire fangs, bolts for Frankenstein ‘s neck, horns to affix to the goblin’s head.

Seconda is the goblin, naturally, so Primo tapes horns onto her hair and she, being two, rips them right off. This process is repeated five times, with Primo growing more and more enraged and Sec growing more and more delighted by her capacity to cause such feeling in him.

Unsurprisingly, there is an “incident” which leaves the baby crying. When I pick her up I am accused of ONLY CARING ABOUT SECONDA!!!!!!!!!

We smooth things over and rehearse the play. I am – you guessed it -- the Old Lady. As such, I have to sing the following song, while opening my mouth wide to ingest my various family members dressed as Halloween spooks.

There was an Old Lady who swallowed Count Dracula

She used her spatula

To swallow Count Dracula

There was an Old Lady who swallowed Frankenstein

She asked Dr. Frankenstein

Before she swallowed Frankenstein

There was an Old Lady who swallowed a goblin

She had a big problem

When she swallowed that goblin

Perhaps she’ll DIE!!!!!!

A harrowing little ditty is so many ways.

But my little Billy Wilder is not pleased with my performance. I am not singing to the right tune! I am not acting scary enough! I am not falling down to die the correct way!

It is now 7 am. The hour at which I would hit snooze on my alarm clock in my previous life.

“FINE! I am CANCELLING the PLAY!!!!!” he yells.

“I think that is a wise idea,” I agree.

“STOP SAYING THAT!!!” he shouts, throwing himself on the floor, “BAD GIRL! BAD GIRL!”

“Bad girl!” repeats Seconda, who takes it a step further by smacking my leg.

“I’m not the one who’s BAD!” I shout back.

“I’M NOT GOING TO BE YOUR FRIEND ANYMORE!” And with that, the tantrum to end all tantrums begins. I will spare you the gory details. By the time David comes home at 8am, we are all shaky, spent, tear-stained.

This has happened every day for the last month.

The good news is that Spring Break ended today! Callou! Callay! Perhaps with the 3-6 hour break I have from Primo’s dictatorial reign, I will be able to summon the patience to make it through. As the little man himself told me this weekend, “Sometimes you think you can’t do something but you really can, if you just don’t give up. That’s what a challenge is.” One to grow on.